


A Handful of Dust

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Chan, Explicit Language, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Out of Character, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash, Slash sex, Spoilers, Tragedy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-26
Updated: 2010-06-26
Packaged: 2018-10-01 00:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10175771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: It was more than a poor childhood that twisted Thomas Riddle into one of the darkest wizards in history. AU. Reincarnation. MPreg. Slash OC/TR HP/TR LV .





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: I own Kiran, but that's all. I'm doing this for personal growth, not money. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

A/N: A Handful of Dust is my first published fanfic; please take this into consideration when reviewing. Flames won't make me stop writing, because, unfortunately, I do it for myself and no one else. On another note, I'm a full time college student who also slaves away full time at work. A Handful of Dust is a WIP (work in progress). Updates will come when I can manage, but I would absolutely love some feedback for this story. I only have the bare plot in mind, so any ideas are more than welcomed. Enjoy!

  
_“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow_

_Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,_

_You cannot say, or guess, for you know only_

_A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,_

_And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,_

_And the dry stone no sound of water. Only_

_There is a shadow under this red rock,_

_(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),_

_And I will show you something different from either_

_You shadow at morning striding behind you_

_Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;_

_I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”_

T.S. Eliot, _The Wastelands_

 

Prologue: The Beginning of the End.

**1 September, 1938**

**Kings Cross Station, London.**

 

It was almost too much for him to bear.

 

His mind, will doubtlessly gifted to say the least, was still that of a child’s. And so much had happened in the past month that said sophisticated mind had been knocked asunder, sent mercilessly reeling. Pale little fingers, which held hints of the elegant strength they would one day hold, tightened on the ticket clutched in his fist; he wasn’t stupid enough or foolish enough to deny the fear that lay coiled tightly in his belly. 

And still, his mind circled the thought that had caused all of this (glorious) frustrating chaos: Magic is real. 

Hadn’t he always known that to be the truth, though?

Yes, yes he had, but to have that truth acknowledged had been delightful. And, even though he did not trust the man, he knew that he would always be grateful (in debt) to Albus Dumbledore, whom had confirmed his almost unconscious beliefs. Dumbledore had proven that he was something special in this pitiful world, someone with a gift.

Someone worth while.

A large woman in a dull brown coat, which matched her dull brown hair almost perfectly, jostled him in her rush. A scowl twisted his features, which, like his hands, whispered of the beauty and strength they would one day possess. He despised adults, more than he hated the children from The Home. They never truly listened to those his age, never listened to anything, really, and he hated them for it. They judged, they belittled, they lied. 

The woman frowned, eyeing him as if it was his fault she had nearly mowed him down in her haste. 

He sneered at her, glowering in a way that caused people in general to go out of their way to avoid his vicinity, before stiffly continuing on his way. He didn’t have times for such distractions; the platform was still a length away, barely in sight, and he was wary of Dumbledore’s instructions about gaining entrance to the actual platform he was to use. It was hidden, supposedly behind a seemingly solid brick wall. The suspicious, calculating side of his mind wondered if this was some sort of test he had to pass. Perhaps, he mused as he approached platforms nine and ten, the wall was used to discover if one actually had magic or not. He knew he had nothing to fear (how many times had he brought the other children to tears in The Home with some strange occurrence or another?) but maybe other’s did; could wizards make such mistakes? 

He wondered briefly what it would be like to know magic exististed just beyond one’s reach. The thought was fleeting, _for he was a wizard he’d always known he’d always been special_ , but chilly. 

His thoughts were once more forced to settle as he found himself in front of the brick pillar that declared platforms nine and ten to his left and right, respectively. Pale green eyes lit with a calculating glint as they studied the solid surface before them…or what appeared to be a solid surface. He was fairly certain that he would be allowed entrance, for there was no doubt that he was indeed magical—but it never hurt to be cautious. 

Especially with so many nosey people rushing about. That was another thing he distinctly hated about humans; they chose the most inopportune moments in which to be observant. 

So, instead of rushing towards the pillar as Dumbledore had insisted he do nearly a month ago, he leaned his tall, skinny frame against it. A wisp of excitement, which had been coiled in his belly since he’d stepped foot into King Cross, solidified as the wall decidedly shifted beneath the harsh bone of his shoulder. He was really, truly going to Hogwarts; there would be others there, just as strange as him. They wouldn’t bully him or cringe away in fear like the children from The Home did. 

He would be accepted, part of a special hidden world.

The part of him that was still a child grasped at these desperate beliefs tightly, hungrily, warily as he was transported through the barrier and onto the hidden platform Nine and Three-Quarters. There was a second of uncomfortable, suffocating darkness, and he almost shouted in surprise because he wasn’t sure if this was supposed to happen, wasn’t sure if this was right and-

And then he was blinking painfully as the light suddenly erupted around him. It soothed him, like a drink of cool water on a hot summer’s eve. Relief filled him, and then awe; his fingers tightened on the cold handle of his trolley, which supported his meager second hand school supplies. Before him was a regal and proud scarlet steam engine, The Hogwarts Express proclaimed in beautiful flowing script along its magnificent side. His breathing stuttered for a single moment at the scene; the powerful steam engine, gleaming in the terminal as families stood around the platform tearfully saying their farewells. He spared the families little thought; he’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t meant to have one. 

There was no pang of disappointment that most would expect a child of his age to experience as he ghosted silently past the clusters of sobbing mothers, proud fathers, protesting siblings. His moss colored eyes swept over them coolly, uncaring as he managed to drift closer to one of the entrances along the exposed side of the train. 

It took nearly ten minutes and two crushed fingers, but he finally managed to drag his heavy school trunk aboard the steam engine. He considered this to be a major victory, personally, for he had managed to do alone what the other first years needed help to accomplish. This would become a common occurrence over the next seven years, but that was farther into the future than he could see at the moment. 

The inside of the train was just as elegant and lush as its exterior; the compartments that lined the narrow hall were closed off with frosted glass panes, and sliding doors made from the same glass. Beneath the second hand trainers he wore, the beautiful gold designs upon the deep scarlet carpet gleamed up at him in a prideful way, despite the fact that they decorated the ground upon which he walked. 

He wandered down the hall a bit, wishing to remain alone for the trip and thus searching methodically for a compartment that didn’t currently house any laughing youthful faces, or those of other first years (these faces were far more fearful, far more pale). It took a bit of work, but as nearly twenty minutes remained before the train was to depart, the clusters of students thinned out after a minute or so into his search. Gratefully, he slid swiftly into an empty compartment, dragging his trunk across the threshold with only a tiny bit of difficulty. He didn’t bother hefting the trunk into the over head rack; it would only end in disaster, and he didn’t plan on letting anyone else sit with him anyway. No one would mind the clutter. 

With a deep breath, he settled back into the velvet cushioned bench that lined the compartment. This was the beginning of his new life, he was sure. The minutes trickled by as he sat, stiff and still with his pale hands folded upon his lap, as he reflected on the few meager bits of knowledge Dumbledore had fed him on his life-changing visit to St. Peter’s Home for Children. He knew he was a wizard. He knew he would be sorted into a ‘House’ upon his arrival at Hogwarts later this evening. He knew he would learn magic. 

What he didn’t know, couldn’t know, was that this was just the beginning of the end. 

His thoughts halted as the compartment door slid open partially just as the train belted out a loud whistle. It lurched forward a moment later, slowly building speed and momentum as it went. He didn’t peer out the large window of the compartment as most of the passengers did; there was no one for him to wave farewell to anyway, and besides, he was far more concerned with the scruffy little boy that was peeking into his compartment. He scowled at the child, eyes cold as they scrutinized the young boy. The child was indeed scruffy, though his clothes were not worn or ill fitting like his own. The other had hair darker that pitch, which, along with the bright green eyes that glittered with curiosity behind delicate silver framed spectacles, made the two of them look similar. His own hair was neatly and painstakingly combed and forced into place, parted to the side. This child before him looked like he had just rolled from bed. 

“Hello there!” The tiny little urchin chirped in a voice that was both high and childish. His eye twitched at the boy’s easy, welcoming smile and he felt his own dark scowl deepen. The boy skipped past the compartment threshold uninvited, closed the glass door, and plopped down, uninvited, into the seat across from his own. Could he not see that he was unwelcomed? “M’not really ‘possed to be on the train with the other students, but my dad says it’s okay so long as I don’t make a n-nurransense of myself and-“

“A nuisance,” he snapped irritably, glaring as the child simply shrugged and kicked his feet. “Which you most decidedly are, by the way.”

“S’what I said.” The boy insisted, completely disregarding the insult. “Anyway, my name’s Hayden. What’s yours?” 

He remained stubbornly silent for a long, pregnant pause as the lush green hills began to rush by quickly, not moving until Hayden huffed impatiently.

“Thomas Riddle.”


End file.
